


sua manu

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26356585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: Caecilia visits a bookseller...
Relationships: Female Roman Calligrapher/Roman Poetess
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9
Collections: Classical Flash 2020





	sua manu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSeanchai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSeanchai/gifts).



The jostle and noisome stink of the Forum Boarium receded as Caecilia made her way towards the Porta Trigemina, placed square in the crumbling Servian Wall. She drew her palla closer at the sight of beggars gathered beneath the shade of the gate and, conscious of how dim a view her father would take if he should discover that she’d been out in the city unaccompanied, she darted past the statue of an old Republican consul and into the cluster of streets off the Via Ostiensis.

Cousin Quintus had given her precise directions. Left by the stubby laurel tree with only two branches, left again at the caupona, and right at the sign of the shoemaker. Three doors down was her destination.

Caecilia lifted her head and put back her shoulders, and walked into the bookshop with all the poise of one of her esteemed ancestors parading in a triumph.

The scent of glue and papyrus, of soot and the sour smell of bodies working in a cramped space made her head spin. She put a hand to the open door, fingers tracing over the layers of painted advertisements. Her shadow went before her, stretching between pigeonholes filled with scrolls and shelves stacked with wax tablets.

From a back room came the sound of a voice reciting a text in a measured cadence. In a corner of the shop itself, a female scribe sat taking dictation from a woman who, from her litany of complaint, was wife to a soldier posted to some far-off frontier and who was, in the opinion of his aggrieved spouse, living the good life while she cared for six children and his aged parents with scarcely a quadrans to rub between them.

“Can I help you?” A woman emerged from the back room, wiping smears of ink from her hands onto a piece of cloth. She was short and curvaceous where Caecilia was tall and slim, and wore her shining black hair pinned back in a simple style that left a few jetty curls loose about her shoulders. Her gown was of blue wool, a shade that flattered the olive tone of her skin.

No wonder Cousin Quintus patronised this particular bookseller. Caecilia’s pulse quickened and her knees trembled, but she mastered her tongue quick enough. “Are you the copyist known as Dora of Gabala?”

The woman cocked her head, a lazy smile on her lips. “This is my shop, yes. I haven’t seen you before, sweetheart.”

Caecilia blushed. “My cousin sent me to collect a book of poetry he ordered last Kalends.”

Dora came forward, her hips swaying in a manner entirely unselfconscious. Her perfume was rich and thick and sweet, like plunging into honey. “His name?” She drew a finger along the top row of pigeonholes, setting the little clay name-tokens dancing on their scraps of ribbon.

“Quintus Caecilius Secundus.”

The finger stopped. “Ah, yes.” Dora faced her. “Ten copies of his wretched doggerel.”

Caecilia laughed before she could stop herself. “Cousin Quintus believes he has been touched by the Muses.”

“He’s been touched, all right.” Dora flicked a dancing curl from her shoulder. “But not by the Muses.”

Her skin was smooth and inviting. A poet would write paeans to that flesh. Caecilia wondered how best to word such a verse. It would be a delight to ponder on the thought for the rest of the day.

“I regret you had a wasted journey.” Dora’s gaze swept over her, lingering at certain points; the weight and direction of her gaze roused a squirming sensation in Caecilia. “Quintus Caecilius sent a slave to collect his books three days ago.”

Caecilia blinked. “He did? But he asked me only this morning to come here…”

“Perhaps…” Dora began, then turned to the pigeonholes once more. “Yes. He left instructions for these elegies to be copied out, too.” She took down a slender scroll and presented it for Caecilia’s inspection. “Our finest papyrus, and he specified iron vitriol ink—it produces a truer, deeper black. I did the calligraphy myself.”

Unrolling the scroll, Caecilia admired the quality of the hand, the regularity of the script and clarity of the words. Dora’s calligraphy was exquisite, smooth, flowing lines that matched the verses written upon the flawless papyrus.

“These are mine.” Caecilia recalled her cousin’s insistence that she fetch the books today, and to go alone if possible. She remembered his coy smile and satisfied look, and how she’d assumed he was anticipating sight of his frankly terrible poems copied out by a professional.

Instead he’d arranged this meeting, and this copy of her poems. Verses that spoke of longing and fire, of supple limbs entwined and delicate touches. Praise of the female form, and intimacies shared by Sappho and her girls.

Oh, she was going to _kill_ Quintus.

“Passionate poetry deserves a passionate pen,” Dora murmured, moving closer. Her gaze was direct, her mouth ripe with invitation. “Your cousin is quite the matchmaker, it seems.”

“Indeed he is.” Caecilia smiled in response and let her palla slip from her shoulder.

Perhaps she wouldn’t kill Quintus after all.


End file.
